Night Watch
by Altariel
Summary: Faramir and Boromir, after the battle for the bridge at Osgiliath.


**Night Watch**

_Minas Tirith, July 2__nd__ 3019_

The Captain's ability to sleep at any time, in any place, was the stuff of legend among the company. Many among the Rangers, if called to witness, would confirm seeing the Captain lay out his bedroll on the roughest terrain, burrow under his cloak, and be asleep within moments. On one occasion, up near the northern border, in deeply unhospitable country, some of the more enterprising members of the party took it upon themselves to count exactly how long it took him to go from standing to sleeping. Angrim made a small packet. ("I am hardly perturbed by this," said the Captain, calmly. "It only reflects well upon my efficiency.")

Boromir too had many similar tales, bought cheaply for beer, such as the time when he had found his brother standing against a wall in the White Tower, waiting to be called in by their father, eyes closed, arms folded, gently snoring. ("Father said that the report I gave him was 'a model of precision and clarity'," Faramir remarked. "How often has he said that to you?") What Boromir had also seen that the others (with the possible exception of Mablung) had not, was the nights when sleep was elusive.

The truth was, neither of them was sleeping particularly well since the battle for the bridge. "In conclusion," their father said, after a lengthy interrogation which by itself would have caused them both a few restless nights, "a disaster." Neither of them had been particularly inclined to disagree, although, later, reconvening in the privacy of Boromir's rooms, both had been hard pressed to say what about the whole debacle had been worst.

"The low point," said Boromir, "was watching that bridge fall on me."

"No, I didn't much like that either."

"At least you weren't in full armour."

"I've told you not to rely on that stuff so much."

"I know, I know. 'No self-respecting Ranger—'" Boromir, stopping himself, could have bitten off his tongue. Thanks to the battle, the Ithilien company was now about a third of the size it had been.

Faramir sat down heavily on the bed. "Do you know what the low point has been? For me, I mean? The letters. I've done about a quarter…" He pressed one hand against the top of his head. "I have tried to make each one personal, but I seem to have hit the limits of invention. There are only so many ways one can express regret." His jaw tightened. "And I am so terribly tired..."

"I can see that," said Boromir. "You look fucking terrible."

"Thank you."

"Have you slept at all this last week?"

"Yesterday. In the library. For about an hour, I think. Tomorrow I resort to drink. I don't want," he pushed himself further onto the bed, "to drink."

Boromir, who had been about to say they might as well start on the wine now, regretfully put the idea aside.

Faramir leaned back against the wall. "And then there is the dream…"

_Seek for the sword… _Boromir too wished he had never been plagued with the fucking thing – although he suspected his reasons differed from his brother's. Dreams, prophecies… Boromir did not trust sorcery. He trusted steel. "I understand—"

"Do you?" Faramir pressed the fingertips of both hands against his brow. "Do you really? It has the force of _command_… And yes, yes, I know all the reasons why it must be you and not me – certainly Father has marched me through them often enough… And yet this is different…"

"You've dreamed before, brother."

"Not like this. Not so _forcefully_… Valar, I am tired…" Boromir watched as his younger brother slowly toppled over, coming to rest lying on his side on the bed, staring glassily at a point on the wall. "And then," he whispered, "there is the memory of the Shadow…"

Boromir felt a sour taste in his mouth. Whatever had forced itself across the river during the assault, he had no name for it, and some treacherous part of him feared he had no defence. He swallowed, hard. Roughly, he said, "That's enough of this—"

"You feel it too, don't you?" Faramir's voice sounded faint, as if he was slipping away into some dark valley. "Like a cold hand on your shoulder. Like we've been _marked_ in some way—"

"Stop this!"

Faramir, wide-eyed, stared at him. Boromir, rubbing his cheek, came to sit on the edge of the bed. He put his hand upon his brother's arm. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry."

"No, I understand," said Faramir, quietly. "Perhaps it's unwise to dwell on these things." He closed his eyes. After a moment, Boromir saw his shoulders relax. Faramir looked younger, and vulnerable. It brought to mind a small boy – Six? Seven? – stealing into this room in the middle of the night, shaking him until he woke. _I can't sleep… _Sighing, but shifting over so that there was room for him. _You can stay, but don't move, definitely don't talk and… just go to sleep, will you!_

"This bed," said his brother, distantly, "is markedly more comfortable than mine. Why am I not surprised?"

He had by now colonized the entire space. Boromir, watching him burrow in further, surrendered to the inevitable. "Whether or not that's the truth of the matter, it certainly looks like it's yours for tonight."

"Huge too… Plenty of room… Always was…"

"Yes, but you've grown since the last time you did this."

There was a pause. Faramir mumbled, "I very much don't want to move."

"And I very much don't want to have to lift you." Boromir sighed. "Just… go to sleep."

He watched as his brother obeyed. Once he was sure that Faramir was completely asleep, he reached over to stroke his brother's dark hair. Then he left, in search of other consolation, in search of another way through the coming night.

* * *

_Altariel, 22__nd__ December 2019_


End file.
